


No Matter The Distance

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Office, Covid 19 content, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, M/M, Miscommunication, Pandemic 2020, Pining, Two Idiots In Lockdown, Working from Home
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24166495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: Crowley starts a new job just as the country goes into lockdown. The only thing more awkward than navigating a new company whilst working from home is the bastard in legal who shoots down everything Crowley says.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 184
Kudos: 235
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends, just a heads up that this fic is based in our current global situation. If current events are at all triggering for you, I strongly recommend skipping this fic. If you've got any questions about the content or want me to tag for something, please just let me know. Fic is meant to be fun. Look after yourselves, my loves.

#  Chapter 1

As first days go, Crowley’s is fairly standard. Security hadn’t been expecting him, human resources had been spelling his name as Crawly, IT hadn’t assigned him a login for either name, and no one knew anything about the licences for the software he needed. Someone with some clout must have been made aware because, around 1 pm, there is a sudden flurry of activity. A new ID badge is delivered to Crowley’s desk, IT send an engineer to apologise, set up his laptop, check his licence permissions, maps the network drives, and make sure he can access the network remotely through the VPN. With the air of someone who knows they are being watched and judged, the tech does everything as quickly as possible, hovering over the chair rather than sitting as he shows Crowley how to dock the laptop to the desktop setup.

Bee, his new line manager, proves to be dry and funny as well as respected by most of the department. Crowley trusts that as a measure of a person.

The main difference that Crowley experiences on his first day at Cardinal Points is that no one shakes his hand. Culture is adapting around them and Crowley finds it all fascinating. Or he would if he had more time to think about it.

Even through the natural anxiety of starting a new job, Crowley can feel the unease and tension about the office. People are packing up their personal items, making urgent-sounding phone calls in the stairwells, and exchanging speculative gossip. If the situation were any different, Crowley would suspect that redundancies or bankruptcy were looming. As it was, the tension just manages to creep under his skin.

“Ah, here you are!” A tall man comes to a halt in front of Crowley’s desk and rocks on his heels, giving the impression that his momentum is too powerful for him to simply stop. He’s wearing a pale grey suit, a white shirt, and a lavender tie. He smiles with too many teeth and neither of his eyes. “Gabriel Herald, executive project manager. You must be Mr Crowley?”

His American accent is too peppy to put Crowley at ease. He tries to swallow his nerves and look like a normal, functioning human.

“Yes, hello. That’s me,” Crowley bites his tongue before it can form any more inane affirmatives.

“Good to meet you, Bee has told me a lot about you. It seems you made quite the impression at your interview.” Gabriel pauses but Crowley doesn’t try to fill the silence, he’s read the articles on appearing powerful at work, he recognises the tricks when they’re being used on him. It’s a small victory when Gabriel speaks again. “Have you had a chance to speak to zir today?”

“Oh, yes. Ze met me at security this morning, gave me the tour and all that.”

Gabriel smiles and nods, waiting for it to be his turn to speak again, Crowley thinks.

“Wonderful, great. Come for a chat in my office.” Gabriel begins to walk away from Crowley’s desk before getting an answer.

Barely suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Crowley follows Gabriel to the lift. Gabriel is clearly trying to make Crowley hurry, perhaps even trying to force a half-running hop into his step, but Crowley’s blessed with long legs and a fast pace so he easily matches the pace.  _ Two-nil to Crowley,  _ he thinks. As Gabriel summons the lift and takes them up to the 23 rd floor, Crowley begins to worry about finding his way back to his desk.

Once they settle in his sterile, featureless office, Gabriel pumps hand sanitiser into his palm and works it over his hands before pulling a file out of a drawer in his desk and makes a show of rifling through it. Crowley sees enough to recognise parts of his portfolio and the concepts he’d brought to his interview a little under a month ago.

“Sucks that you’re joining us now, in the middle of this. But hey! At least you’ll have a job; better than some people, huh?” He laughs at this with an intensity that makes Crowley fidget. “The rest of the team isn’t even here; higher-ups had me send them home, can you believe that? As if people would actually work at home.” Gabriel makes the looming global crisis sound like a personal affront.

Crowley makes what he hopes is a sympathetic noise and pulls a face to match. It’s difficult to be truly remorseful about not having to meet a bunch of strangers with things as they are.

“Starting to feel like the end of the world out there,” he offers, repeating the sentiment that he’s heard echoed for the past week.

“Right, yeah, sure is,” Gabriel doesn’t appear to be listening. “Probably be moving the whole company to work from home in the next couple of weeks so I’m required to ask: that won’t be a problem, will it?”

Crowley feels like he’s being interviewed all over again and bites back the sharp answer he wants to give.

“Shouldn’t be a problem at all,” he says with a shallow smile. “I was working freelance before this.”

His home office is set up just how he likes it; Crowley isn’t even slightly concerned about this possibility. He’d still be working from home right now if it weren’t for his need for a stable income during this economic uncertainty.

“Great, awesome. Team meetings are Mondays and Thursdays at two. Looks like we’ll be using Zoom for those now, however  _ that’s _ going to work. Bee’ll make sure you’re up to speed before Thursday, but I won’t be expecting miracles until you’ve been here for a week.”

Crowley laughs weakly. Gabriel doesn’t.

The awkwardness of the moment is cut short by a sharp knock on the door. Bee doesn’t wait for an answer before pushing the door open and glaring into the office like it had personally offended zir.

“Crowley, I thought you might have been stolen away up here. I need you back downstairs for a few signatures.” Bee doesn’t even acknowledge Gabriel which clearly irritates him in a way he can’t articulate. Crowley watches the impotent frustration break through Gabriel’s careful mask of corporate indifference.

“Right, yeah. Good to meet you, anyway.” Gabriel goes to offer his hand before thinking better of it and chuckling. “No, better not, eh?”

“Thanks,” Crowley says vaguely, standing and heading for the door. “Speak to you soon enough, I’m sure.”

As soon as they are away from the door, Bee gives Crowley a scouring look and appears to be satisfied.

“Did he actually say anything useful or important?” Bee asks, zir tone making it clear what the expected answer was.

“Not in the way he wanted to, no. Think I got a decent measure of him, though.” Crowley takes a gamble on which camp he wants to be in. There’s obviously no love lost between Bee and Gabriel and, of the two, Bee seems the more beneficial ally.

Ze snorts, pleased with Crowley’s willingness to insult Gabriel.

“Good thing I came to rescue you when I did. You’d have been pulling your hair out before long.”

Bee walks Crowley back to his desk and checks that he’s finally got everything he needs to get to work. There’s a packet of materials from his predecessor and each page is covered in notes and red ink. It’s daunting, but at least he’s got something to look at, something to help him see the lay of the land. He lets the work absorb him for a while.

The phone he’s been issued buzzes once on the desk beside him, drawing his attention. It’s later than he had thought, Crowley realises as he picks up the phone- it’s getting dark outside. There’s an ‘All Staff’ email from the company. The sword has fallen.

_ Effective immediately, all employees are expected to work from home. Access to the offices is restricted to personnel retrieving materials to facilitate remote work. More information will follow. _

Yeah, as first days go, it hasn’t been bad but it has certainly been weird. Crowley packs up the few items that have come to rest on his new desk: the phone, the laptop, the packet of project materials, and he starts to look for Bee or anyone else who might care that he’s leaving.

Everyone else seems tied up in their own frantic preparations but, just as he’s about to give up, he spots the marketing lead weaving zir way between desks.

“Crowley!” Bee calls out, holding a hand up to get his attention. He nods in response and rests the laptop bag on the corner of the desk, waiting for Bee to get close enough to talk. “Good, caught you before you left. I take it you saw the message?”

“Yeah, bit sooner than I expected, but not surprising.”

Bee nods and taps zir boot against the base of Crowley’s desk in three sharp knocks.

“You good, though? Sorted? Got what you need?” Zir arms are almost hugging zir chest like the conversation has already gone on too long and ze wants to get away.

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” Crowley says, unsure how to navigate this situation.

“Good, great. Well, don’t let me keep you. I’ll be in touch tomorrow to check-in.” Bee looks Crowley up and down before giving a jerky nod and turning away.

“Right, bye then. Speak tomorrow.”

Crowley walks away from his desk trying to shake the feeling of having failed some kind of test.

Two bus rides and a ten-minute walk has Crowley back at the flat he calls home. His return is greeted by a series of indignant, squeaky mews from Roomba, his cat.

“I did tell you I was going to be out all day,” Crowley says in response to her scolding. “Seems like we’ll be sharing a workspace again for a while, though.” He scoops her up into his arms and buries his face in her warm fur just to feel the vibrations of her purring. “You’ll have to cancel any parties you’ve planned, we’re on quarantine orders now.”

As a result of spending a significant number of years working from home and for himself, Crowley has developed an excellent work ethic and a level of self-discipline that could rival professional athletes. It’s because of these qualities that he is sitting at his computer, wearing a freshly ironed shirt, working through connecting to the remote network, at a little after 8 am on Tuesday. He’s dispensed with a tie because, frankly, he hates them, but otherwise he’s as ready for his second day of work with Cardinal Points as if he’d had to commute in.

With Roomba at his heels, Crowley leaves his office for a few minutes to make a mug of coffee whilst his computer connects. It already feels like nothing has changed, like the new job was a fiction he’d convinced himself of. He could almost laugh about how worried he’d been about adjusting to working in an office only to end up right back here, working from home.

He’s got a lot to get through and a strict timetable to stick to, so aside from sending a quick message to Bee to confirm that he is up and running, he wastes no time in attacking his workload.

By lunchtime, Crowley feels confident that he’s got a decent grasp of the project and his place in the bigger picture. Cardinal Points operates three of the largest breweries in the UK, producing seven of the most popular British beers. From the research he did before his interview, Crowley knows that these products represent almost 40% of supermarket beer sales and not much less than that in pub and off-licence sales. It’s a big business. Like any market leader, Cardinal Points has an insatiable hunger for growth and they’ve set their sights on the cider market. Crowley wonders if the company might be a little late to the buffet table; the explosion in popularity that cider has been enjoying is several years old already. He’s clearly not the only one with this concern judging by the sheer number of buzzwords and exclamation points on the early briefs. Coming into the market late with a lacklustre product was as good as admitting that they were jumping on a bandwagon and hoping to make a quick profit.

Despite his general distaste for companies as large as this one, Crowley can admit that he’s impressed with the drive behind this new product. The company is going to a lot of effort to ensure a quality product with a solid launch and marketing strategy behind it. That’s where Crowley comes in. He’s spent a number of years quietly building an impressive portfolio of work, marketing campaigns that got people talking in all the best ways. His talent, such as it is, is for creating campaigns that live in the mind long after the adverts have stopped running- he forges links between products and near-universal human experiences that become so pervasive that people are customers before they’re even aware that they’re being tempted. He’s already full of ideas for this new challenge.

At a little after midday, Crowley stretches and stands up from his desk. Roomba is immediately winding around his feet and purring up a storm- all too familiar with his routine, she practically shepherds him into the kitchen with her small but persistent body.

“Alright, you tiny tyrant,” Crowley gripes at her as he opens the fridge and pulls out what he needs for a quick sandwich.

A few scraps of ham might fall from his fingers as he’s putting the sandwich together, but Roomba performs her duties diligently and quickly cleans up the evidence. He eats leaning against the kitchen counter, kicking a ball around with one toe for Roomba to chase. It’s supposed to be her enrichment time but he’s been feeling for a while that she’s just humouring him in these exercises.

He finishes eating, sticks the plate into the dishwasher and wipes the crumbs off the side, keeping everything clean and tidy. Giving the little ball one more kick, Crowley heads back to his office and prepares to go over the market research data from the preliminary stages of the project.

A  _ ping _ alert gets his attention almost as soon as he sits down. Bee wants to call when he gets a free minute. Checking he’s got the company-issued mobile to hand, he shoots back a quick message saying he can take a call whenever Bee likes.

Instead of calling the mobile, Bee’s face pops up on Crowley’s screen with a telephone icon above it. Sighing wearily, Crowley clicks the green icon and accepts the call. His entire screen is suddenly taken up with the scowling visage of his diminutive line manager.

“Crowley, update me.” The lack of social niceties is jarring but oddly refreshing.

“Yeah, pretty good, I think. I’m just getting into the market research data, probably going to change the format so it, uh, actually means something.” It’s cheeky, he knows, but if Bee is anything like the manager he suspects then it will pay off.

Sure enough, ze laughs like a blocked drain and nods zir approval.

“Good plan, whatever Dowling was doing with it was utter nonsense.” Crowley watches Bee bite zir lip and tug at zir collar. Ze looks nervous. “Look, this is going to sound weird, but can you turn on your webcam?”

Automatically, Crowley checks behind him to make sure there’s nothing but bare wall behind him. It’s a reflex that he hasn’t needed in a few years but the fear is always still there. He’s only living one life these days, there’s nothing that could be on display behind him, but it never hurts to check.

“Yeah, of course,” he says once he’s satisfied his irrational fear and clicks on his camera.

“Thank fuck,” Bee says with obvious relief, “I’ve never been so happy to see a boring wall and a door, Crowley, I can’t even begin to tell you.”

Crowley waits, giving Bee the opportunity to expand and fill the silence. Ze does almost immediately, hiding zir face in zir hands and sighing deeply.

“I have seen so many dildos already today. One of the temps has explicit posters right behind his desk. I swear that one of the IT guys is working out of some kind of home sex dungeon. He’d put sheets up over the shelves but they just fell off. It’s day one and I’ve already seen too much.” Ze sounds utterly exhausted and it’s not even 1 pm. “You’re wearing proper clothes as well! I’ve had to tell two of the designers that they  _ do  _ actually need to wear clothes for video meetings. I never thought that would be a conversation I’d have to have.”

Crowley makes a sympathetic noise whilst biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at Bee’s definitely-not-funny distress.

Behind him, the door swings open as Roomba makes her entrance, never content with squeezing through a gap when she can fling her body at the door and make the sort of appearance usually reserved for royalty.

“What was that?” Bee asks, zir eyes showing a momentary panic. “Do you have a child?”

Crowley laughs, shaking his head.

“No, no, it’s just Roomba. Don’t worry, it’s all professional and above-board here. I’ll at least get through my probation before leaving any questionable items laying around for a video call!”

Bee laughs again, much more relaxed this time.

“Well, I appreciate it. I better be off to check on the rest of these reprobates. Don’t hesitate to message or call me if you need anything,” Bee makes a decent attempt at eye contact through the camera. “There’s a marketing team meeting tomorrow at 2, it’s in your calendar. Don’t worry about having anything prepared yet.”

“Right, yeah, I’ll see you then. Thanks for checking in, Bee,” Crowley says with a professional smile which he manages to maintain until the call has fully ended.

As soon as he’s sure that the connection is closed, he releases an explosive bark of laughter that doesn’t so much as startle Roomba as cause her to lift her head from the hammock of her cat tree and look at Crowley with thinly veiled annoyance.

“Why is the world so full of idiots?” he asks the cat, reaching over to stroke her ears and soothe her back into gentle purring.

Wednesday passes in much the same fashion; Crowley cracks on with organising the raw data he’s inherited until it’s time for the meeting. He makes a little time to play with Roomba before he has to get on video, just so she doesn’t cause too much in the way of distractions during his first meeting with the team.

When he joins the zoom call, Crowley is pleased to see that he’s not the first or last to connect. Bee is already waiting, looking stern in zir black shirt and jacket against a light grey wall, and sitting so still that Crowley wonders briefly if zir camera is frozen. Ze blinks and Crowley feels himself sit straighter under zir gaze. As the last few stragglers connect, Crowley takes a moment to scroll through the various video feeds and look for any familiar faces. Out of the 15 people in the call, he recognises Bee and one other person, he feels like such an outsider to this team.

“Right,” Bee says sharply, cutting through the hesitant greetings that are being made. “I’m glad to see that you’ve all taken yesterday’s comments to heart. I expect this department to continue to operate as the professionals that we are. That means dressing appropriately and maintaining acceptable levels of personal grooming.”

Crowley sees a few raised eyebrows and one exaggerated eye roll, either Bee’s bark is far worse than zir bite or people have forgotten that they are on camera. Crowley isn’t prepared to gamble on the answer so he keeps his face as neutral as possible.

“Does it have to be full business dress?” A grey-faced man in his fifties asks, already tugging at his collar and tie in irritation.

“No, business casual is fine. I just want you to remember that you are still at work, this isn’t a holiday we’re all taking,” Bee answers and earns a groan of relief from about half the team.

Several ties are removed before Bee can move on.

Ze makes a point to introduce Crowley and point out the people he’ll likely be dealing with the most. There’s a thin-lipped woman called Michael and a nervous, younger man called Eric who Crowley is told to make contact with. He waves self-consciously.

Beyond that, most of the meeting is a generic wellness check, a reminder of what is and isn’t allowed during the lockdown, and where support might be available for those who need it. Crowley isn’t too concerned with these things, he’s very used to keeping his own company by now.

He spends another evening on the sofa with Roomba, working through his Netflix queue and picking at a bowl of salad. It’s really as if nothing has changed.

Thursday is far busier from the moment that Crowley sits at his desk in the morning, coffee in hand.

He has eight emails from Gabriel, two of which directly contradict each other and two more that are clearly the result of him hitting “reply all” by mistake. Crowley finds something faintly reassuring in the evidence of Gabriel’s general ineptitude. It’s one of the constants of the business world: people get promoted above their ability to function and then stay there, miserable and struggling, until retirement. Crowley thinks he knows just how to deal with Gabriel as a project manager.

He gets 15 more emails from Gabriel before the meeting that afternoon, none of which require anything from Crowley, so he reads and files them away and focuses on the tasks that Bee has sent him instead.

Feeling prepared and the right side of keen, Crowley logs in to the zoom meeting only to find an empty room. He’s five minutes early which is nothing, he at least expected Gabriel to be connected this early even if it was just to display the agenda. With nothing else to do, Crowley waits and tries not to worry.

Two minutes before the meeting is due to begin and Crowley is reading through the calendar event for anything that might explain where everyone else is.

One minute to go and Crowley is combing through Gabriel’s emails again, feeling the distinct prickle of nervousness running up his spine. He can’t be late to this. He  _ hates _ being late.

Thirty seconds before the meeting should start and Crowley is just about to call Bee to find out where he’s fucked up when a soft chime tells him that someone has joined the meeting room. He looks up and catches sight of his wide-eyed face just before seeing the stranger.

“Oh, hello there!” said the stranger, smiling, “You’re new, aren’t you?”

Crowley nods, having trouble finding his tongue with this vision in front of him. The man looks like he’s just stepped out of a Dickens novel but also, perhaps, like he might be running late for a very important date. He’s wearing a waistcoat and a jacket despite clearly being at home, he’s even got a little tartan bowtie neatly snug around his neck. The colour palette is all creams and beige, toned towards gold, most likely influenced by his very blond, fluffy hair. Maybe it’s the near hysteria that Crowley has just been working himself into, but he very desperately wants to laugh.

“Not to worry,” the man continues after Crowley fails to speak, “Gabriel doesn’t ever start these things on time, you’re in the right place.”

The genuine warmth of his reassurance makes Crowley feel a little guilty for the internal laugh track that’s playing on a loop. He smiles back and opens his mouth to introduce himself when the room is suddenly swamped with people joining and the rounds of greetings between friendly colleagues that followed. Before Crowley gets the chance to catch up, Gabriel arrives and immediately mutes the entire room, including himself.

There are a few minutes of utter chaos as Gabriel gets to grips with technology and then, finally, the meeting begins. Various updates are given on components of the project and Crowley takes diligent notes, finding that the information he was given is already quite out of date. It’ll take some sorting out and that irritates Crowley.

He’s scribbling something down when Gabriel’s raised voice snaps his attention back to the screen.

“Fell!” Gabriel is trying to get someone’s attention and clearly becoming agitated with the failure. “Fell! Oh, for Christ’s sake,  _ Aziraphale! _ We’re waiting for you.”

As someone who prefers to be addressed with their surname, Crowley hasn’t really thought twice about the way Gabriel seems almost averse to using first names. Now, with the Dickens white rabbit guy suddenly looking very annoyed and making exaggerated typing motions, Crowley realises that he’s spent over an hour not knowing that this  _ ridiculous _ man has the most fitting and outrageous name he’s ever heard. Who could be satisfied just saying “Fell” when the alternative was “Aziraphale”?

A message pops up in the meeting log.

> A.Fell: Someone  _ please _ tell Gabriel that he’s got me on mute and that shouting won’t resolve that problem for either of us.

Gabriel must see the message as his face goes still and suddenly Aziraphale can be heard by the room.

As he gives his update, Crowley gathers scraps of information about him. He learns that Aziraphale is from the legal team, clearly knows what he’s talking about, and is without a shadow of a doubt outstandingly gay. Not that Crowley is at all interested, it’s just nice to see that he feels comfortable enough to be his authentic self. It makes Crowley feel just that little bit safer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know anything about anything and I never have. This is especially true about corporate offices, drinks manufacturers, marketing, or projects. I hope that this does not detract from the story for you!
> 
> Thank you to NarumiKaiko, as always, for the amazing beta work and helping to make it seem like I've at least been near an office before!

“Hell of a time to be starting a new job,” Michael says, “how are you finding it?”

Crowley already doesn’t like her. He can’t put his finger on it, but something about her just sets him on edge.

“Yeah, alright, I guess,” he answers, noncommittally. “Hard to get a proper feel for a company with all of this going on.” He gestures vaguely with one hand to indicate the state of the world.

Michael nods and purses her lips. She does that a lot, it seems. Crowley looks away from his screen so he doesn’t have to see her irritating expression.

“Might be better this way, you’ll see what a shambles this company is that much faster and can get out quickly.”

He glances back up and can see the questioning look on his own face on the video call before he can school his features into something more passive. Michael must see it too because she gives a tight little grin and leans in closer to her camera as if she’s about to share life-changing secrets.

“Trust me, something about this company just ruins people, I’ve lost so many promising friendships with colleagues.” She shakes her head sadly.

Crowley manages to bite back his unkind first thought that, perhaps, it wasn’t the fault of the company that she wasn’t making friends. A soft chime interrupts his thoughts and Eric’s nervous face appears in the Zoom meeting. Saved by the bell, Crowley chuckles to himself.

“Hi, uh, sorry I’m late,” says Eric, lifting a hand to wave and then just leaving it in the air. “Lee had me doing a bunch of data entry and it took loads more time than I expected.”

Michael scoffs loudly and rolls her eyes.

“You’re a researcher, why has Lee got you doing data entry? Why is Lee giving you work at all?” 

Eric falters and finally drops his hand out of sight. Crowley can feel the discomfort rolling off him, even over a video call.

“You really ought to stick up for yourself more,” Michael continues, “people will just walk all over you if you keep letting them.”

Eric laughs in a poorly executed attempt to relieve the tension and Crowley can’t take the increasing awkwardness less than two minutes into the call.

“Don’t worry about it, Eric,” he says with a careful amount of warmth in his voice, “it was Eric, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s right.” He smiles a little uncertainly but does lean back and appear more relaxed.

“OK, what do you know about this project? Help me get caught up?”

It quickly becomes clear that Michael has been attached to the project in name only with all of the work falling to Eric. Crowley tries to hint that Michael might have other, more important things to be getting on with rather than sitting in on this meeting, but she seems content to stay on and intermittently prove that she has nothing of value to offer.

Eric’s been doing a good job, filling in since Dowling left, and he has all the data that Crowley was missing. It’s organised almost exactly how Crowley wants it and if he could reach through his monitor to kiss Eric, well, he wouldn’t right now, but he’d certainly think about it for longer than is appropriate.

“Tell me about the rest of the project group?” Crowley asks when Michael seems most distracted, “Anyone I should be wary of?”

Thankfully, Michael doesn’t look up from whatever it is she’s doing with her mobile. Eric gives the kind of nervous, guarded, safely corporate opinions that manage to say everything and nothing at once. Grinning, Crowley jots down a couple of notes, giving Eric enough acknowledgement to let him know that Crowley is most assuredly picking up what Eric is hinting at. 

As he had gathered from his own interactions, Gabriel is doing his best impression of a duck: serene and gliding effortlessly above the surface but paddling like mad underneath. He’s out of his depth and desperate to make a success of what he’s been given. It seems as though any success will be in spite of Gabriel’s efforts rather than because of them. Device, from R&D, is confident in the way that is admired in men and described as bitchy in women. Crowley suspects that Eric considers her confidence well-deserved from the way he goes to some lengths in describing her contributions. Production haven’t been too involved yet, but Hastur sits in on the meetings to be obtuse and sulky nonetheless. Fell, Crowley notes how Eric sounds weary as he says the name, is a shark. Eric thinks he’s got a vendetta or something against either Gabriel or the project itself, although he laughs as he explains this and gives no evidence.

“Fell?” Michael drops back into the conversation with a single word. Crowley had been so close to forgetting that she was even still connected. “Aziraphale Fell from legal?”

“Yes, that’s the one, daft name and all,” Crowley affirms, trying to decide whether he approves of the glint in Michael’s eye as she leans in closer to her camera. It’s unkind but mischievous, and Crowley has never been able to turn down a good dose of mischief.

“You want to know why he hates this project so much?” Michael lays her bait almost seductively. 

“I, uh, I have another meeting!” Eric lies unconvincingly, “I’ll catch up with you on Monday, Crowley!” With that, he disconnects.

Feeling like he should back away from Michael’s pointed smile, at least until he’s had time to consider the way Eric had bolted like a startled rabbit, Crowley is amazed to find himself leaning in.

“Hit me with it,” he invites.

Somehow, Michael’s smile grows wider and more unsettling.

“He wasn’t supposed to be on this project,” Michael says conspiratorially, “he was practically guaranteed a promotion about six months ago, everyone knew it was as good as his. Then the announcement came out and he’d been passed over. He’s been bitter and difficult ever since.” She leans back in her chair, arms folded across her chest, looking far more smug than one person should be able to manage. “You’ll have your work cut out for you with that one on your project, that’s for sure.”

“Surely you mean that Gabriel has his work cut out for him?” Crowley questions, wondering at her meaning.

“All of you, he’ll find a way to make all of your lives difficult. It’s what he does.”

“Right, yeah,” Crowley says, feeling distinctly discouraged. “Thanks for your time, Michael. I think I’ve got enough to work with now.”

He bids her farewell, tacking on an awkward “be safe” to the end. It feels insincere, but only because nothing seems real right now. Abstractly, Crowley knows that people are getting sick, people are dying, but it’s all rather removed from his reality.

Over the course of the evening, as he sits picking at a jacket potato and feeding bits of tuna to Roomba, Crowley finds his mind wandering back to what Michael had told him. The soft-looking man who dressed like a classic era Doctor Who lead, the delightfully bitchy man who screams homosexuality in a way that refuses to be misinterpreted, is a shark in disguise. Less white rabbit and more great white, Crowley muses as he scratches Roomba behind the ears.

Netflix pauses the show he isn’t paying attention to, seeking confirmation that he’s still there. A slightly maudlin thought creeps in that only Netflix has asked him anything of the sort this week. He reaches over the controller and picks up his phone instead. In under a minute, he’s set up a group chat called “Introverts United, but at a distance” and added his little social group. 

Feeling a little awkward about breaking the ice, he takes a quick photo of Roomba who chooses that moment to lick a speck of tuna from her whiskers. The result is a gloriously undignified picture of teeth and tongue and ears, he sends it to the group with the caption “Roomba is getting tired of me being home all the time.”

The photo has barely sent before Deirdre responds with “EARS!” which is her standard response to any picture of Crowley’s feline flatmate. Roomba’s suspected Devon Rex heritage has blessed her with an unfair share of both ear and leg, a fact which Deirdre has never shown any sign of getting over.

Tracy follows up quickly with a message of her own, “Roomba doesn’t know how good she’s got it.” and that makes Crowley laugh.

“Missing me?” he types out, falling into the easy, fun flirtation that defines his friendship with Tracy.

A picture of Dog, Arthur and Deirdre’s black-and-white terrier, pops up on Crowley’s screen. He’s covered in mud from nose to tail and giving the kind of doggy smile that only an exceptionally filthy terrier can. “Fancy a trade?” Arthur offers.

Crowley shows the photo to Roomba who sniffs the screen and wanders off, unimpressed.

“Everyone’s a critic,” he mutters to himself before tapping out a light-hearted response to Arthur, kindly refusing his offer of the hound from Hell.

It feels better to have this, a little social contact with the people he misses, Crowley thinks. It’s not even been a week yet and he’s already missing the little things like going for a drink with Tracy or wandering around a park with Deirdre while Arthur runs after Dog. He supposes, after a moment of thought, that it’s less about missing those things after just four days and more about all the occasions over the coming weeks that he’ll have to go without. 

The weekend isn’t too painful, Crowley has enough ways to pass the time without leaving the flat and the novelty of the situation is still keeping him from getting too twitchy. He manages a decent enough haul from the supermarket, although many staples are absent from the shelves. It’s not dissimilar to the rare occurrences of snow that send the English into paroxysms of fear and trigger panic buying of bread, milk, and eggs. Crowley’s main concern is that Roomba’s preferred brand of kibble is out of stock. She can be fussy and that’s a stress that Crowley can really do without right now. 

He sends a message to the group chat to ask them to keep an eye out on their own expeditions. He’ll make the trip to more distant stores if he has to. Roomba doesn’t understand that the world has gone to shit, all she’ll know is that her human has failed to provide for her and, well, Crowley can’t have that.

Maybe it’s a little melodramatic of him but, ever since he’d laid eyes on her at the shelter, Crowley had vowed to take the very best care of her that he could. They were two discarded, unwanted creatures, who deserved a second chance to find happiness. Crowley is aware that he projects onto his cat. He’s decided not to be particularly interested in thinking too deeply about it.

On Sunday, Crowley feels like he should stop avoiding the inevitable and go for a run. He’s been meaning to go for days but the motivation has been lacking. It’s been hard enough to keep up his daily yoga routine and the temptation to slip into bad habits is an increasing draw. Whilst he doesn’t need to maintain his body in quite the way he used to, he does still prefer to stay fit and active. There’s a touch of vanity in there, or perhaps a lot of vanity, if he’s feeling honest. A reminder that he was once desirable enough to be worth a risk.

So, reluctantly, he laces up his running shoes and heads out to the local park, stretching as he goes. With his earbuds in and his muscles warmed, Crowley sets off for a lap around the boating lake with a detour up the small hill to loop around the old oak tree. He feels better for it almost immediately, committing to a second lap before the first is completed. After that, he still feels good enough to run home, taking advantage of the empty streets.

Once he’s home and has dissuaded Roomba from licking him, Crowley starts the water running for a shower, stripping off and stretching out his tired limbs as it gets up to temperature. When he finally gets under the stream he lets it just flow over him for a couple of minutes, closing his eyes and zoning out.

He can see a garden, the likes of which has never existed in reality. It’s lush and green, accented with vibrant pops of colour from fruit and flowers. A beautiful man, tastefully nude, holds out his hand to offer a perfect apple. 

“Oh, fuck me!” Crowley cries excitedly, throwing himself out of the shower with such violence that he almost brains himself on the medicine cabinet. 

He rummages through the pile of sweaty clothes on the bathroom floor, searching for his phone which falls out of a pocket and onto the tile with a thunk. Dripping wet, Crowley scoops it up and opens a note-taking app in order to scribble down the fresh ideas that have popped into his head. He’s almost giddy with delight at having such strong inspiration strike this early on. He can’t even regret the puddle spreading across the floor. 

Once he’s properly clean, dry, dressed in comfy pyjama bottoms, and no longer in danger of turning his bathroom into a pool, Crowley curls up on his sofa with a pad of paper and begins to sketch out some of the images from his serendipitous daydream.

He’s feeling ready for the Monday morning meeting when it rolls around. Bee calls first thing to give Crowley some very strict instructions about how to conduct himself. Apparently, HR had received a number of calls over the weekend about “inappropriate use of Zoom backgrounds” and poor Bee looks like ze hadn’t slept since Friday. 

No longer worried by being the first one in the meeting, Crowley opens the Zoom link at his customary time and keeps it open in the background while he composes replies to a couple of emails that need his attention. He’s almost forgotten that it’s open when he hears a polite little cough.

“Good morning,” he says brightly, minimising his emails to get a better look at this adversary he’s been warned about.

Somehow the man looks like even more of a caricature this morning: his bowtie clashes with the pattern of his waistcoat, his white hair is erratic like he’s been tugging at it, and his grin is so damn welcoming that Crowley finds himself returning it without realising. He looks like a cross between the last minute magician you might hire for a kids party and a mad scientist.

“Good morning,” says Aziraphale, “early again I see!”

Crowley nods, wondering how much to say.

“I’m Crowley,” he says before the silence can get awkward, “Anthony to my mother, but Crowley to everyone else.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Crowley,” Aziraphale beams. “I’m Aziraphale, Fell to Gabriel,” --he rolls his eyes at that-- “but Aziraphale everywhere that matters.”

Crowley smiles in return and considers repeating the man’s name back to him, just to feel the shape of it in his mouth. He already knows what a delightful name it is to say, but Aziraphale might smile even brighter to hear it. This apparent spanner in the works seems to Crowley to be little more than an eccentric but harmless man. Other people join the meeting before any more conversation can take place, but Crowley has already started to disregard the warnings from Michael and Eric.

Gabriel is in a fine mood this morning, cheerily steamrolling his way through the technical sides of the meeting and barely paying attention to the agenda he’d sent out three corrections to that morning. Crowley finds himself having to be far more attentive than he’d expected as Gabriel flits from item to item with no apparent consideration to logic or sense.

Device, the woman from development, is part way through explaining some of the flavour profiles they’ve been working with when Gabriel interrupts her.

“Crowley!” he snaps, making Crowley jump although he’d been paying close attention. “How are we going to taste test these options with the public?”

“Oh, we’re onto that already? OK.” Crowley opens a tab on his second monitor and shares it with the meeting. “I’ve had a few thoughts about this and, depending on the budget, I think we can still achieve a very representative spread of our target range.”

“Does that say that we might ship samples to market research subjects?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley can see him peering at his screen through ridiculous half-moon spectacles. “Yes, I’ll be the first to admit that these are preliminary ideas and I haven’t looked into the legal ramifi-”

“It’s not about the legality!” Aziraphale snipes, cutting him off. “You can’t send proprietary samples of products under development to any old Tom, Dick, or Harry who gives an address! These things are closely guarded secrets until release, else we risk losing our legal protections over all sorts of things.”

“Right,” Crowley says, feeling about two inches tall. He closes the screen share. “Like I said, these were just preliminary thoughts.”

Gabriel scoffs and mutes Crowley, although it’s unclear if that was a deliberate snub or an accident. He still feels rather dejected about the whole thing. It’s not the rebuttal so much as the tone, the implication that this is stuff he should already know. Never mind that he’s been in this industry for a solid week and worked from home for all but one day of it.

He can feel himself spiralling and he knows better than to give in to the gravitational pull of despair at the bottom of that pit. For a moment, Crowley considers citing connection problems and leaving the meeting in favour of an early lunch, but that will only make him feel better for a few minutes. He needs to stick this out.

Finally, Gabriel dishes out the action items and focus areas for the week before closing the meeting. Crowley makes a quick note of where he needs to direct his attention, mentally rearranges his workload, and looks up to say goodbye when he realises he’s still on mute. A few people are still connected so he starts typing his goodbye into the shared conversation.

“Ah, Gabriel, while I have you,” Aziraphale says, inadvertently drawing Crowley’s attention.

“What can I do for you, Fell?”

“Well, I would have preferred to do this in private, but you don’t return my calls,” Aziraphale says snippily. Crowley is quietly impressed with the sheer force of the man’s bitchiness. “I thought you should know that I’ve been ordered to shield for a minimum of 12 weeks on account of my medical history.”

“Right, right,” Gabriel nods. Crowley knows that he hasn’t got a clue about what Aziraphale is telling him. “As long as it doesn’t affect your work!”

Too late, Crowley realises that he’s eavesdropping on something that should be private and disconnects from the meeting. Still feeling stung by the sharpness of Aziraphale’s reprimand, Crowley puts this new information out of his mind and goes to find Roomba for a consolatory cuddle.

It’s not until later that night when he’s working his way through a familiar yoga routine that Crowley finally starts to laugh at himself for his reaction. Someone he doesn’t know spoke to him a little sternly and it ruins his whole day? He’s being far too dramatic about the whole thing, even by his usual standards of drama. A week without human contact has made him laughably sensitive. Laughing himself right out of a revolved triangle pose, Crowley breaks to drink some water and shake off the feeling of silliness that’s taken him.

Roomba decides that yoga time is over and gets up from the little yoga mat that Crowley had put out for her (look, he’s read that cats like to feel involved in whatever is going on and if she’s sitting on her mat then she isn’t on his mat or jumping on his back each time he attempts a bakasana) in order to jump up onto the sofa and expose her belly.

“Oh, I see the trap you’re setting, young lady,” Crowley says, falling for it anyway.

He sits beside her to rub her belly until she’s had enough and gives his finger a gentle nip. By then, he really doesn’t feel like going back to his yoga routine and heads to the bathroom for a shower. 

On Tuesday, Bee sets him up with some contacts at a market research company they’ve outsourced to before. Ze gives strict instructions about what Crowley can ask, but he is allowed at least to commission a few hours of consultancy from them. Given the current situation, he supposes that unusual measures are going to become far more usual over the coming weeks.

He keeps in touch with Eric over the week, relying on the younger man’s industry experience to keep him from going too far off the tracks. It’s really tough, still, learning a new market and all the legislation governing how he can operate. Several ideas wither on the vine and Crowley reaches Thursday afternoon feeling like he hasn’t got a lot to show for a week’s worth of work.

He’s on a call with the contact from the market research company when he sees the time and has to scramble to end the call and jump into the team meeting. He’s been sitting cross-legged in his office chair with Roomba napping between his knees for the fairly informal chat, and now he doesn’t want to chuck her off just because he didn’t manage his time better.

Thankfully, he’s not quite the last one in the meeting and Roomba seems content to keep sleeping out of sight. The warmth and slight weight of her body is pleasantly relaxing and works to reduce the anxiety he’s got building. For someone as eager to please as he is, Crowley reflects, he is exceptionally good at setting himself up to fail. It’s the never-ending pattern of his life.

Whatever good mood Gabriel had been experiencing on Monday appears to have disappeared. He’s snippy as he confirms the list of attendees and tuts at the last person to join. Crowley’s pretty sure that if the meeting had been in person, Gabriel would’ve been staring daggers at the poor bloke. It was one of the benefits of Zoom, he supposed, pointed looks and subtle gestures were rather lost in the medium. Passive aggression was being cut drastically and it seems to be the only language that Gabriel is fluent in. Keeping up with the temperament of a toddler in management is going to turn Crowley grey.

Crowley manages to keep his head down for most of the meeting, answering the odd question that gets thrown his way, and mostly keeping himself on mute so he can listen and think. This sort of biweekly check-in isn’t particularly helpful for him, at least not on this scale. His work really isn’t going to be affected by whatever is happening in accountancy, just like production aren’t going to be interested in the design options Crowley eventually presents for the bottles.

It feels especially shambolic today, Gabriel appears to be barely keeping his temper never mind the thread of the meeting. Eventually, making Roomba poke her tongue out in the way she does when she’s being petted particularly well is far more interesting to Crowley than anything happening on his screen.

She’s almost drooling in lazy, feline pleasure when Crowley glances up at his screen to see a private message blinking at him.

_ A Fell _ _   
_ _ Something interesting in your lap? _

Crowley snorts, unsure of how to interpret the tone of the message. Given the way Aziraphale had bitten his head off, and the rumours he’s already picked up, he’s not particularly inclined to offer the benefit of the doubt. He types a simple, if deliberately misleading, response.

_ A Crowley _ _   
_ _ My Roomba _

He watches the screen and sees the moment that Aziraphale reads the message, his eyebrows darting towards his hairline and a twitch of a smile at his lip.

_ A Fell _ _   
_ _ Unusual use for a vacuum cleaner. _

Crowley lets his camera pick up his answering smirk and leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. Nosy so-and-so can think what he likes, Crowley decides. Serves him right for acting like some kind of enforcer. Looking around at the other bored faces on his screen, Crowley wonders how many of them have had chiding messages dropped in their inboxes and how they deal with the irritation of a holier-than-thou colleague.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ROOMBA IS THE BEST GIRL AND THAT'S HARD FACTS


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not abandoned! I'm still writing this but it's slightly lower priority than a few other irons I have in the fire. There's a plan, but please don't expect frequent updates. I have only the one brain to focus on any given thing at a time!
> 
> Thank you, as always, to my incredible beta, NarumiKaiko!

The second weekend of enforced isolation starts off so much like the first that Crowley keeps finding himself wondering if he’s stuck in some kind of Groundhog Day situation for the week. He’s making an effort to stick to a better routine, but that invites the risk of creating an institutionalised mindset. Last time he fell into that trap, he had barely escaped having a panic attack in Asda because they’d sold out of his preferred brand of bolognese sauce. It’s a fine line between keeping a healthy routine and accidentally developing unhealthy compulsions as far as Crowley is concerned.

On Saturday evening, after he’s been for a run and had a shower, Crowley gets dressed up for a night out. He even styles his hair into what Tracy calls his “wanker’s peak”, a sort of curly quiff that manages to be artfully casual whilst devilishly difficult to achieve. With his look complete, Crowley gives a spin for Roomba’s consideration. She doesn’t appear to have much of an opinion on his look.

Instead of pulling on his boots and heading for the door, Crowley picks up his tablet and sits on one of the barstools by his kitchen island. There’s a bottle of wine fresh out of the fridge, condensation beading and running down the sides. With a few taps, he sends Tracy a video call invite and waits for her to join as he debates opening the wine already.

“Crowley!” she cries through the screen, “You look scrummy as usual!”

He laughs, preening for her approval and letting her see the full outfit he’s picked out for their distanced date. Never one to be outdone, Tracy is a vision in pink and black, everything coordinated with military precision. The colour of her earrings perfectly matches the fitted dress and, unlike Crowley, she’s bothered with shoes as well which she shows off with a giggle.

“The clubs don’t know what they’re missing, love,” he assures her. “What are you drinking tonight?”

Tracy twists her camera to show the staggering array of spirits available to her.

“I’m in the mood for cocktails, gonna see how many I can remember.”

“That’s a challenge that’s only going to get harder over the course of the night!” Crowley jokes, earning another giggle from Tracy. “Start with the more complicated recipes, I suppose?”

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Crowley?” she teases. “What are you drinking?”

He shows her the wine and earns an impressed whistle.

“Feeling fancy today, are we? That’s no Echo Falls cheap plonk.” Tracy says after a moment.

“What can I say, you’re worth it,” he says with a flirty edge to his voice. Tracy shudders.

“It’s so weird when you do that, makes me all shivery," Tracy complains dramatically, teasing with her long-held theory that Crowley could charm the pants off a statue. "The poor gays of London will be thrown into pitiful states of melancholy without you to lead them on.” She means it playfully, Crowley knows, but it’s a little too close to the bone for his already lockdown-delicate state of mind.

Tracy busies herself with the first cocktail of the evening, which, for all her scolding about Crowley’s flirtatious nature, she’s decided will be a Screaming Orgasm. Crowley is safe to set his attention on opening the wine, easing the cork out with an expert hand. It’s a good vintage, but nothing truly upmarket, not like some of the things he’s been treated to before. The brief lapse in conversation allows Crowley to get a little more introspective than he likes and, as he pours a generous measure into his glass, he finds himself thinking about a different life he’d led, years before.

“Right,” Tracy says, breaking through Crowley’s thoughts, “drinks achieved, on to the main event. Where’s my girl?”

“You only like me for my cat, I swear!” Crowley grumbles, picking up his tablet and carrying it to his bedroom, switching the camera view on the way.

“I liked you before you got a cat,” Tracy reminds him, “she’s my reward for being your friend for this long. Ah! There’s my baby girl!”

Roomba dignifies Tracy’s excitement with her attention, lifting her head and giving a toothsome yawn, much to the delight of her enraptured audience.

“Hello, Roomba, darling,” Tracy coos as Crowley rolls his eyes. “Are you being a good girl? Do you miss your Auntie Tracy? I miss you! I do! Good lord, look at those ears, young lady. You could be a model.”

Crowley turns the tablet back on himself whilst managing to look mildly disgruntled.

“Are you satisfied now? Can we go back to our plans for the evening or shall I leave you on a call with my cat whilst I drink a whole bottle of wine on my own?”

Tracy looks thoughtful and opens her mouth to answer.

“Choose your next words carefully, Potts!” Crowley warns.

“Of course I’m choosing you, darling, come on, give me all the gossip about your new job.” Tracy says smoothly, taming the prickliness that Crowley was losing control of.

He carries the tablet back to the kitchen and spends a few seconds making sure the camera gets a flattering angle before picking up his wine glass.

“Cheers,” he says, lifting the glass to the camera as Tracy does the same. “Not sure there’s much to tell about work, really. I can’t meet anyone, everyone seems frazzled or genuinely insane, and the one person who I might have liked to get to know appears to be a giant arsehole.”

Tracy leans closer to her camera, a conspiratorial smile on her pink lips.

“Tell me about this arsehole,” she says. Crowley rolls his eyes again, regretting even mentioning it already. There’s nothing to tell.

“It’s not exciting, I’m afraid,” he begins, “he’s just this guy from legal who either has it out for me, or for the project in general. I can’t tell which.”

Tracy plucks the cherry off the top of her drink, letting it dangle by the stem for a moment.

“A guy, eh? Is he cute? Is he gay?” She pulls the cherry off the stem with her teeth. “Is he single?”

“I tell you the guy’s a bastard and you start trying to matchmake?” Crowley can’t bring himself to actually be annoyed, he knows Tracy too well by now.

“I’m just getting the background information!” she protests, gesturing with the cherry stem.

“Ugh, fine. I don’t know if he’s single, he’s not bad looking, if a little eccentric, and he’s definitely gay. No doubt about that one.” Crowley rattles off his answers and buries his nose in his wineglass as soon as he’s done as if that will stop Tracy from grabbing at the details she wants.

“Cute, gay, and a bastard? Crowley, I think I’ve found your dream man.”

To Crowley’s surprise and, later, concern, he and Tracy discuss Aziraphale through two more glasses of wine, a Singapore Sling, and a Gin Fizz. He’s goaded into admitting that, despite the bizarre fashion choices, the man does have something about him that Crowley would find attractive on a less objectionable human. He regales Tracy with his version of their private message exchange during the Thursday meeting, the pushy way he had tried to scold Crowley for not paying attention and his crude response. Tracy snorts so forcefully that cocktail comes out of her nose.

“Crowley, you don’t have the sense you were born with,” she laughs between hiccups. “He was  _ flirting _ with you!”

Crowley can feel the scowl that has formed on his face, even through the pleasant fuzziness brought on by most of a bottle of wine.

“You’re ridiculous.”

Tracy only smirks and eats her fifth cherry of the night, there’s a definite pattern to the drinks she’s making and it’s centred around the garnish. No wonder she’s all dressed up in pink too, Crowley smiles at the realisation, her dedication to a theme is admirable.

“If he’s flirting, it’s a wasted effort,” Crowley says after Tracy fails to fill the silence. “He’s playing some game and I don’t want to be part of it.”

Tracy holds her hands up in surrender, allowing the subject to drop. Instead of focusing on just why he’d been able to talk about Aziraphale for quite so long, Crowley pours another glass of wine and steers them towards a safer topic. They make plans to rope Arthur and Deirdre into a movie night some time in the week, just as a way to keep connected while they are being forced apart.

The end of the night is exactly as messy as if they’d actually been out on the town, although far cheaper both in terms of cash and dignity. Tracy cries when Crowley promises they’ll go out for real again, her mouth stained red by the cherries and her mascara smudging around her eyes. Crowley cries because Tracy is crying and he can’t hug her. It takes a lot of sloppy air kisses and goodbyes for either of them to feel able to end the call.

On Sunday morning, Crowley wakes with a dry mouth, a thick head, and a cat sleeping on his bladder. He’s been through this routine often enough to skip the part where he swears never to drink again, opting instead to shift Roomba off the bed and head to the bathroom. A large glass of water and two paracetamol later and he’s feeling almost human again. Human enough to send Tracy a message saying that he’d survived the night, at least.

In the shower, he finds his mind wandering once more, travelling down well-worn paths of introspection and navel-gazing. Some of Tracy’s words have burrowed under his skin, leaving him feeling a little out of sorts. Crowley’s never minded being seen as attractive or flirtatious before, but now he’s beginning to wonder if that’s all he is, if there’s nothing below the surface. Maybe this is why he’s never had a relationship last more than a few months: people are drawn in by the decorative exterior and then find that there’s nothing more to him.

This is the sort of mood that can result in Crowley doing something impulsive, like shaving his head or getting a tattoo, something to establish his control over his physical body. He knows through experience that it’s only a temporary salve with more regret than comfort. Better to dig a tub of ice cream out of the freezer and find something mindless to binge on Netflix, wait for the mood to pass. He lets Roomba lick a little melted ice cream off the back of his hand, grateful for her company.

* * *

On Monday morning, Crowley feels a lot better and a little cheeky. He decides to relax his wardrobe a touch, covering up his usual shirt with a light, slim-fitting sweater. It’s still smart by most standards, just more casual than he’d dared so far. He’s skirting the edge of nervousness about it when he joins the video call, just early enough to soothe his compulsions but late enough that he’s not caught in the room with only Aziraphale for company.

Aziraphale, he notes almost immediately, appears to have relaxed his dress code as well. The bow tie is nowhere to be seen and he’s down to his shirtsleeves. He manages to look softer than usual with his collar slightly open and the natural line of his shoulders on display. Crowley fancies that he knows better than to be drawn in by appearances before realising that he’d still managed to spend a solid 30 seconds just gazing at him.

They aren’t the only ones mixing things up in terms of outfit. Hastur is by far the worst offender, he appears to be wearing a bathrobe, sipping from a cup of coffee like they’re interrupting his breakfast. Even Device has shifted away from her usual high-necked, long-sleeved shirts and into something that looks far more comfortable.

When Gabriel appears, wearing a full suit and tie, he gives the impression of a substitute teacher faced with an unknown and restless classroom. Crowley fancies that he can see the exact moment that Gabriel notices Hastur by the way his jaw clenches and a red flush rises up his neck. It’s almost too entertaining.

His good mood evaporates less than five minutes into the meeting.

“That’s a great idea,” Aziraphale says enthusiastically, his hands clasped in front of his chest, “really wonderful, assuming that our goal here is to be sued so thoroughly that the company goes out of business!”

Crowley grits his teeth and scratches a line through his notes. It’s bad enough that he’s making these slip-ups, but he could really do without the condescension.

“Thanks, I’ll take that under consideration,” Crowley manages.

Gabriel looks alarmed for a moment, his eyes flaring wide until he seems to realise that Crowley is merely being facetious and his face settles back into its usual configuration of disdain and vacancy.

Wishing that he’d run the list past Eric before the meeting, Crowley shrinks into himself and tries to avoid participating in the meeting until he’s called upon directly. It’s ridiculous, to feel this small and useless over a couple of sharp comments, but Crowley keeps tripping on the hurdle of Aziraphale’s biting criticism.

“I expected better of you, Anathema,” Aziraphale is saying, sounding disappointed and Crowley finds that he actually hates that more, even when he’s not the target.

He scans the mosaic of faces, looking for the current target of Aziraphale’s unpleasantness. The R+D person, Device, has her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Don’t speak to me as if I’m a child, Aziraphale,” she says, a razor-sharp edge to her voice that makes several others cringe.

Before the situation can escalate, Gabriel figuratively steps in and manages to diffuse the tension. Grudgingly, Crowley has to admit that it was handled well, making him realise at the same time that his opinion of Gabriel has only sunk since meeting him.

His sense of self-preservation must temporarily abandon him, because Crowley finds himself typing a private message to Aziraphale, hitting send before he can reconsider the wisdom of his actions.

_ A Crowley _

_ Are you always this objectionable or is it just this project you hate? _

He stares at the message for a moment, dreading sliding down his spine like ice. That was foolish. He has no idea how Aziraphale will react to a message like this and, just two weeks into the job, he’s nowhere near secure enough to start rattling cages. A desire to look up and see Aziraphale’s reaction battles with his need to disappear from the awkwardness he’s created. The computer pings.

_ A Fell _

_ Whatever do you mean? _

Crowley recognises the opportunity he’s being offered, the chance to back out with some modicum of grace. He can just apologise and they’ll pretend it never happened. He glances back to the video call and finds Aziraphale gazing directly into his camera. He feels  _ seen _ in a way that unsettles him, especially knowing that Aziraphale can’t be looking at him at all.

_ A Crowley _

_ You seem to be rude and dismissive with everyone, it’s discouraging. I just wondered why. _

He doesn’t take the offered escape, instead softening his accusation a little. Clearly whatever cheekiness he’d felt earlier was still making itself known. He sees Aziraphale chuckle, a reaction entirely at odds with Crowley’s message. He’s completely thrown off track by it.

_ A Fell _

_ Is that so? I suppose my patience is rather thin these days. _

_ A Crowley _

_ Is it just that you’re disappointed in not getting that promotion and funnelling that into this project? _

Crowley is far too bold and he knows it. He doesn’t know this man, doesn’t know his humour or sensitivities, and yet here he is asking probing, personal questions. He’d blame Tracy and her delight over the topic on Saturday night, but he knows this is all him, this is who he is. Curious to a fault.

_ A Fell _

_ I wonder where you heard a rumour like that. News does travel fast, even without the proverbial water cooler to gather around, doesn’t it? _

That answers nothing, Crowley feels his frustration building as Aziraphale dodges around his questions like a politician. Deciding that Aziraphale is probably just trying to wind him up as pay back for the impertinent messages, Crowley forces himself to relax.

_ A Crowley _

_ Never mind, I was out of line. _

It almost hurts to step back like that, but nothing good would come from letting Aziraphale wind him up any further. Luckily, the meeting is almost at an end and Crowley only has to wait a few more minutes before being able to bury his face in a pillow and scream at himself for being such a colossal weirdo.

* * *

Despite feeling like he’s wasting Eric’s time, Crowley reaches out to him again and sets up another call, this time without Michael getting involved. It’s a productive few hours and Crowley really starts to understand some of the limitations and legal barriers that affect marketing for an alcoholic drink. He never would have guessed that you weren’t allowed to show people drinking and smiling in an advert, for instance. Ultimately, though, Eric has his own work to get on with and Crowley needs to try and sort out his pitches himself. He can’t monopolise Eric’s time just because he’s in unfamiliar territory.

On Wednesday, Crowley gets an email from Aziraphale asking if they can talk before the meeting on Thursday, just the hour before to discuss the project. It’s a perfectly polite email with nothing to suggest that Crowley should worry. And yet, worry he does.

He frets all of Thursday morning, making endless cups of coffee and then leaving them to go cold instead of drinking them. He’s a mess and he knows it. There’s very little that Crowley hates more than having someone be upset with him, which is especially unfortunate because Crowley has a real knack for pissing people off.

He almost doesn’t accept the invitation to the meeting when Aziraphale sends it, he’s tied himself in knots over the possibilities of what Aziraphale could want to discuss. He’s being ridiculous and he knows it, he’s scolding himself internally as he opens the zoom link.

Aziraphale fills his screen almost immediately, reclining back in his chair like some kind of Bond villain. He’s even got a, frankly, gorgeous cat in his lap. Crowley is caught between laughing as Aziraphale strokes down the back of the tortoiseshell beauty and asking her name. He manages to hold himself together by a thin margin.

Aziraphale breaks first, snorting a laugh with a calming hand on the cat.

“Sorry, she jumped on my lap just a minute ago and I thought this would be funny,” he explains.

Crowley lets himself laugh then.

“It was pretty funny, you look like a knock-off Blofeld,” Crowley admits.

“I hope that’s no comment on my co-star, here?” Aziraphale lifts an eyebrow imperiously. Crowley almost chokes.

“Of course not, the lady is clearly the talent carrying the whole production!”

“Hmm, she certainly acts like it,” Aziraphale says, his voice dropping to the peculiar register known only cat owners, something between mockery and limitless adoration. Crowley knows it well. “Anyway, I didn’t ask you to meet with me so we could talk about this spoiled princess all day! “

“No, I’m sure,” Crowley schools his features into something more appropriate.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and Crowley wonders just how badly he’s fucked up. He’s not above apologising if he has to, but there is something going on that he wants to know about.

“I understand that you have heard some sort of rumour about me,” Aziraphale begins, his eyes fixed on his screen, “likely along the lines that I was passed over for a promotion and harbour some bitterness about that. Am I far off?”

“Yeah, I mean, no, you’re not wrong,” Crowley says, feeling an embarrassed flush rising up his neck, “That’s roughly what I heard.”

“Allow me to tell you the truth. It is the least you deserve. It’s true that I was widely expected to be promoted to department head last year. I interviewed for it, as did several others, and I was offered the position. It was made clear to me that I had been offered the promotion over a better suited candidate because she had recently returned from maternity leave.” Aziraphale pauses here, looking expectant.

“That’s awful,” Crowley says, wishing he’d known this before accepting a job with these people. “I know this stuff is illegal, but it’s so easy for companies to get away with in reality.”

“Quite,” says Aziraphale, “and the board really thought that I would be fine with it. I went to Eve, the candidate in question, and told her what I knew. I told her that I would support whatever she wanted, but that I would not be accepting the promotion. Ultimately, she got the promotion and has been doing a stellar job.”

“Wow,” Crowley says rather stupidly, “that’s obviously not common knowledge.”

“No, and I would prefer for it to stay that way.”

“Of course,” Crowley agrees. He tries to absorb this news and reconcile it with everything else he knows about Aziraphale. It changes things, frames them in a new context. “I don’t get why you’re so aggressive to everyone, though.”

“Say what you mean, why don’t you?” Aziraphale laughs, “Heavens, no beating about the bush, there!”

“Sorry! I just mean-”

“No, no, you’re right,” Aziraphale cuts him off, smiling kindly. “I have been being overly harsh, especially with you, considering that you’re new to the industry. I suppose I’m overcompensating; I’m under scrutiny now, people are talking and there are some who consider me disloyal. I can’t afford to have anything go wrong around me right now.”

Crowley nods, it makes sense that Aziraphale would feel targeted after upsetting the apple cart like that. He’s about to say as much when the cat on Aziraphale’s lap yawns and stretches so hugely that she looks like a cartoon.

“She’s gorgeous,” he says without thinking. “What’s her name?”

“Chaucer,” Aziraphale says, smiling indulgently at the lady in question. “She’s a ragdoll, all fluff and flop.”

Crowley hides a smirk by taking a sip of coffee. 

“Would you like to meet my girl?” he asks once his composure has returned.

“I would be delighted!” 

Crowley calls out for Roomba and Aziraphale makes a noise of amused understanding. She trots into the room and jumps into Crowley’s lap, allowing him to lift her to chest height for the camera.

“This is Roomba, undeniable boss of this household,” Crowley says proudly, cradling his baby.

“Not, in fact, a vacuum cleaner then?” Aziraphale asks with a giggle that borders on adorable.

“No, although she will snatch up anything dropped on the floor.”

Aziraphale throws back his head and laughs, completely without artifice or agenda. It’s a lovely sound, Crowley realises, and maybe Tracy hadn’t been so far off the mark after all. An idea occurs to him, something that he hopes he can pass off as purely professionally motivated.

“You know,” Crowley begins cautiously, “I think that you and I could make this situation work to our advantage. Perhaps if we were to work together?”

Aziraphale lifts an eyebrow, a soft smile on his lips.

“Whatever are you suggesting?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWO BEST GIRLS?? IN ONE STORY?!?
> 
> GAY CAT DAD CONTENT!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now beta read! (Thanks Narumi <3)

“Aziraphale has an absolutely gorgeous ragdoll cat,” Crowley says before shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

His brain catches up with what’s just happened when he’s mid-chew and it takes a great deal of concentration to keep him from choking to death. He can see his own worried face in the bottom corner of his tablet screen but, more worryingly, he can see the growing grin on Tracy’s face. At least Arthur and Deirdre just look confused.

“Who or what is Aziraphale?” Arthur asks just as Tracy begins laughing.

“He’s Crowley’s new boyfriend! Isn’t that right?” She jumps straight into teasing him and Crowley starts to wonder if choking to death on popcorn wasn’t actually the better option.

“No, he’s not,” he says, feeling the colour rise on his cheeks anyway, “he’s just some guy working on the same project as me. He’s been a real pain in the arse up until now.”

“A flirty, attractive, cat-owning pain in the arse, though,” Tracy adds.

Crowley drags one hand down his face, groaning quietly. Curse his stupid mouth and everything that has ever come out of it. This was only supposed to be a quick chat after they’d all watched a movie together. Predictably, Deirdre had a lot of thoughts to share on the cat that shows up in three scenes and Crowley’s mouth had just offered up the first bit of cat related information it had to hand. Being teased by Tracy was bad enough when he was still trying to work out if there was any kind of attraction between him and Aziraphale, but now the whole group knows that he’s got, what, a crush? A light flirtation? A professional acquaintance? He’s as lost as any of them.

“Tell us about this mystery man,” Arthur says, grinning.

“Tell us about this  _ cat _ !” Deirdre corrects and, well, an out is an out. Crowley takes the gift he’s been offered.

“Her name is Chaucer and she’s a beautiful tortoiseshell. She looked to be just the sweetest natured pile of fluff I’ve ever seen.” Crowley knows he’s gushing about a cat he only saw for a few minutes, but he’s really not ready to examine his fledgling friendship with Aziraphale on his own, let alone with these well-meaning vultures. “She looks like she belongs in a Don Bluth film or something.”

“Surely she doesn’t hold a candle to our girl, though?” Tracy asks, making Deirdre gasp dramatically and clutch her chest at the thought.

Crowley glances over at where Roomba is sprawled on the rug, licking her own belly in a display of feline flexibility, if not grace.

“Of course not, no cat in the world could come close to Roomba.”

“Ears?” Deirdre asks hopefully.

Arthur groans beside her and wanders out of frame. Crowley can just about hear him telling Dog that he shouldn’t take the insult too personally. His friends are such oddballs, he loves them.

Calling Roomba over, he moves the tablet so the camera can see her. She sniffs around the edge of the screen to a chorus of delighted cooing from Tracy and Deirdre. It seems that the cat distraction gambit has paid off again, or so he thinks.

“How did you come to see Aziraphale’s cat, then?” Tracy asks.

Crowley doesn’t bother turning the tablet around again, they don’t need to see his reaction to this stuff.

“We had a chat on Thursday,” he admits, “cleared the air and came to something of an arrangement, I think.”

“Wait,” Deirdre interjects, “I need catching up on this. Why would you need to clear the air? What’s this guy’s problem?”

Crowley takes just a moment too long to bask in Deirdre’s immediate, unquestioning loyalty and misses his chance to answer. Tracy leaps in and gives a reasonably accurate version of events, albeit without the real reason for Aziraphale passing up the promotion and with rather more embellishment on the supposed flirting. Before she can go too far off the rails, Crowley jumps in to do a little damage control.

“Alright, it’s not quite as salacious as Tracy would have you believe,” he says to a small chorus of disappointed whines, “Aziraphale told me his version of what happened with the promotion and I’m inclined to believe him.” He fills them in on the details as quickly as he can, feeling a little like he’s breaking Aziraphale’s confidence as he does so. He’s sure that Aziraphale wouldn’t care about his friends knowing this stuff but Crowley has an odd relationship with privacy at the best of times. “And after we got all that cleared up, I suggested that perhaps we could work together more closely, help smooth over the rough spots on each other.”

He doesn’t need to be able to see the screen to know the exact smug, knowing face that Tracy is pulling. He really doesn’t need to let her see just how much the gentle teasing is getting to him. This extended isolation is making him more crazy than normal and it’s only been three weeks.

Roomba appears to grow tired of her audience and hops off the sofa to go in search of whatever entertainment a cat might desire. Perhaps some staring into space followed by running laps of the room at mach 3. Crowley turns the tablet back around, bracing himself for whatever taunt Tracy has lined up next.

“I think that sounds lovely,” she says instead, looking as earnest as he can remember seeing her.

Deirdre is nodding in agreement. At some point, she’s acquired a lap full of wiggly terrier and is wrestling with him with the apparent goal of kissing him between his ears.

“Yeah, well, it’s just work. Don’t go getting carried away with yourselves just because we’re both gay, yeah?” Crowley knows he’s grousing a bit more than is fair but he really wants to hammer this conversational coffin closed.

“No, of course,” Deirdre says. “Bedtime for us here, let’s do this again in the week, maybe something that Adam can watch with us?”

Once Crowley has said all his goodbyes and agreed to a midweek movie night, he turns off his tablet and flops back over his sofa. He’s lonely in ways that he could never have foreseen, things that he had taken for granted now seem so important. How long did he usually go without a hug? When was the last time he’d just sat with someone and enjoyed their company? He’s too sober to be this maudlin on a Saturday night. Bed is probably a good idea, then.

He thought he’d have a bit longer before losing his mind over this stuff. He climbs into bed, wondering if a wank will make him feel better or worse, and decides that he’s definitely going for a good, long run in the morning. Roomba chirps at him from the doorway and hops onto the bed, making a nest behind his knees. So, that’s a no on the wank, then.

  
  


Monday starts with a message from Aziraphale within thirty seconds of Crowley getting online. They had hammered out most of the details of their arrangement on Thursday, but now the actual work would begin. The flare of pleasure caused by seeing Aziraphale’s name pop up in the notification bar is nothing to overthink. He’s just happy to be making headway on this project at last and that’s all it is.

_ A Fell  
_ _ Good morning, Crowley. Enjoyable weekend, I trust? _

He wonders how enjoyable Aziraphale would find Crowley’s restless energy and frequent dips into depression. No one asks these questions hoping to hear the truth, though.

_ A Crowley  
_ _ Good enough! Yours? Ready to get cracking? _

Crowley shudders as he hits send. He’s not a fan of his corporate persona, truth be told. It’s an easy mask to slip on and maintain when it’s needed, but there’s something in the insincerity and forced optimism that wears on him. But this is the skill he’s going to try and help Aziraphale with so he can’t afford to slip up.

_ A Fell  
_ _ My weekend was lovely, I got some long overdue reading finished and baked some bread. What shall we focus on today? _

With only a few hours before the Monday meeting, they are limited on what they can achieve. Crowley suggests that they use the time to go through his most pressing tasks so that Aziraphale can give feedback in a less judgemental environment. It quickly becomes clear that a video call is going to be more efficient than constantly typing and waiting for responses.

When Aziraphale appears on Crowley’s screen, he’s not at all prepared for just how soft Aziraphale is looking. He’s wearing a blue shirt with a neat, spotted bow tie, and over the top of that is the softest, snuggliest looking cardigan that Crowley has ever seen. He wants to crawl inside it and hibernate for the winter. It looks like there would be room for both of them inside it. It’s just a momentary distraction and Crowley thinks that he recovers well enough for it to go unnoticed. He’s glad that he hasn’t let his own standards of dress slip, fairly certain that Aziraphale is looking appreciatively at the slim fitting waistcoat and dark shirt he’s wearing.

“So, I think the first thing I really need to solve is how we’re going to get market opinions on the product.” Crowley jumps straight into the biggest issue he’s facing, hoping that Aziraphale will make good on his side of their agreement and knowing he’s putting a lot of faith in a relative stranger. “I’ve got some ideas, but obviously there are legal ramifications and proprietary concerns so I’d love to hear what you think.”

Aziraphale nods in acknowledgement and moves a little closer to his desk, leaning his elbows on the edge so he can rest his chin in his hands.

“Do go on, I’m sure you’ve come up with something genius.”

As it happens, Crowley has come up with two ideas that will cost far too much money, one idea that would break a number of laws, and one idea that makes Aziraphale gasp and lean back in his chair.

“I knew it, I knew you’d be able to come up with something incredible.”

Crowley tries very hard not to blush, but after the disaster of his first three ideas the praise is more than a little welcome.

“Really? This one could work?” he asks, hearing exactly how desperate for approval he sounds.

“Oh, my dear, I doubt that anyone could have come up with a more elegant solution.”

And, oh dear,  _ that _ is a problem because Aziraphale is  _ beaming _ at him, so pleased and proud looking that Crowley thinks he might do some really stupid things to earn that reaction again. No, he’ll definitely do some really stupid things if it makes Aziraphale look at him this way. Stupid, needy, approval-starved Crowley, he’s going to have to get a firm grasp on this situation before he ends up projecting all of his emotional needs onto Aziraphale.

“Right, good, yeah,” Crowley babbles, “so I’ll present that at the meeting then. We’ll talk after, yeah? Great. See you in a bit.”

He ends the call before Aziraphale can react with more than a single nod of his head.

Deciding that making a fresh cup of coffee is as good a use of his time as anything, Crowley pushes himself up from his desk and heads to the kitchen, berating himself constantly on the way. He’s gone and developed a daft little crush on Aziraphale and now he’s acting like a total freak just because he can’t react to things like a normal person.

Aziraphale must think that he’s upset Crowley and that’s a realisation that hurts. The kettle begins to boil and Crowley wonders if he could get away with claiming some kind of toilet emergency as his reason for bolting like a scalded cat. The embarrassment would be easier to bear than hurting Aziraphale’s feelings and if that’s not a sign of how hopeless he’s acting, he doesn’t know what is.

After firing off a quick “I hate you” text to Tracy, laying the blame for his crush solely at her undeserving door, Crowley heads back to his office to try and put together some figures for his plan so he can present something more than a concept to Gabriel when the meeting rolls around.

He’s so wrapped up in polishing his presentation that he almost misses the start of the meeting. He definitely misses the message from Aziraphale sent about 30 minutes earlier suggesting that he pair the proposal with the dreaded alternative they’d identified as a worst case scenario. Crowley gets into the meeting exactly two seconds before Gabriel joins and is grateful that, with these virtual meetings, he’s not actually out of breath and ducking through the door at the last second.

_ A Fell  
_ _ Good of you to join us ;) _

A glance at the screen shows Aziraphale’s perfectly innocent expression falter for a split second as a smirk pulls at his mouth. He’s such a bastard and that’s how Crowley knows he’s in trouble. What would have irritated him into muting his mic and swearing creatively last week, is now a charming and endearing quality. He still barely knows the man, but after just a couple of conversations and some bonding over their feline mistresses, he’s rethinking everything he thought he knew.

Luckily, or not, Crowley’s side of their bargain means that he has to spend most of the meeting watching Aziraphale’s face. He’s already good at reading people and anticipating their needs, but Aziraphale projects his emotions like a lighthouse. Just as Gabriel is spouting some inane corporate speak about “these difficult times”, Crowley spots the way that Aziraphale’s jaw is beginning to clench.

_ A Crowley  
_ _ It’s not worth it. Just imagine punching him instead. _

Aziraphale’s eyes flick down a moment after Crowley hits send and his pained grimace melts into a soft smile.

_ A Fell  
_ _ You’re right, I shall hold my tongue. _

Feeling like he’s defused a bomb, Crowley leans back in his chair and grins. It’s as easy as that. All he has to do is try to help Aziraphale control his temper and rash outbursts and it seems that just a simple nudge is enough to snap Aziraphale out of his laser focus.

“Something amusing you, Crowley?” Gabriel is staring right into his camera and the effect is so startling that Crowley can see everyone else looking away from their screens.

“Sorry, what?” he says, hoping to dodge the displeasure aimed at him.

“I don’t see how any of this news is cause to grin like a clown. It’s not the kind of response I would expect from a  _ professional _ ,” Gabriel says, his voice cold and pointed.

A trickle of dread runs down Crowley’s spine. Does Gabriel know about him? Why else would he use such weighted language? Crowley can feel the blood draining from his face as he scrambles for an answer.

“Sorry, Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, drawing the figurative fire away from Crowley, “that was my doing. I sent Crowley a joke while you were talking. It’s not his fault and I apologise.”

There’s a beat of silence where both Crowley and Gabriel are stunned into speechlessness. Crowley can’t even draw breath in the stretch of seconds that it takes for Gabriel to respond. There’s no reason for Aziraphale to lie for him, especially not to draw the blame away from Crowley like this.

Gabriel flexes his shoulders as if he’s resettling himself, talking himself down from a fight.

“Right, yes, I expect better from you too, Fell,” he says, “distracting your colleagues does not set a good example.” Gabriel claps his hands sharply, signalling a move on from the topic and Crowley lets himself relax a smidge. “Let’s hear about your progress, Crowley, what’s your focus for the week?”

So, not quite out of Gabriel’s sights yet, Crowley is again grateful for the preparation he’d done with Aziraphale that morning. He wouldn’t be left looking useless and making Gabriel question the wisdom of hiring him in the first place.

“I’ve been working on the market research problem,” Crowley begins, noting the sharp smirk that Gabriel flashes. Clearly, he doesn’t expect Crowley to be able to solve this. “I’ve come up with two possible solutions. The first is to establish a number of secure, sterile research locations where the usual opinion testing can be carried out under carefully managed conditions. Admittedly, this won’t be cheap as we will have to bring in infection consultants and each survey is likely to take longer.” Already, Gabriel is shaking his head and looking like a shark who could smell blood. Crowley lets his eyes drift to the square holding Aziraphale, taking encouragement from his gentle smile and subtle nod.

An alert pops up on his screen.

_ A Fell  
_ _ Go for the throat now! _

Crowley can’t help the answering grin and he knows that Aziraphale sees it. They’re in this together. A team of two.

“The second solution is very different to anything that’s been attempted so far,” Crowley continues, feeling his confidence grow. “I propose that we engage a selection of sommeliers and cider experts to taste the products and describe the flavour profile of each. We also have them do the same with competing ciders. Using these results, we can survey members of the public who are familiar with existing products, asking them to choose from a limited selection of descriptions to assign to each product.”

Encouraged by the lack of interruption, Crowley shares his screen with the meeting to show the rough mock up of the survey that he had thrown together after talking to Aziraphale. He talks through projected reach, expenses, and time frames, comparing them to both traditional polling and his first suggestion.

“It’s not a perfect solution, by any means, but I do believe it’s achievable and will give us the information we need. We’ll understand the tastes of our consumers, they can rate the projected profile of our products, and we’ll have as robust a description of our flavours as possible,” Crowley says as he closes his presentation.

He glances from square to square, checking for reactions as much as for boredom. Device, the R&D lead, has her hands clasped in front of her chest and a bright look on her face. Hastur appears to have fallen asleep but that could have happened at any point in the meeting. Gabriel is scribbling on something out of view, his lips pressed together into a thin line that could be concentration or disapproval. Dagon from finance is nodding in what looks like grudging agreement. So far it’s all looking reasonably good and Crowley finally lets himself look at Aziraphale.

No amount of time or preparation could steel Crowley against the sheer power of Aziraphale’s beaming delight. He looks so proud and pleased, his cheeks pushed into perfect apples by the width of his smile. Yup, Crowley is fucked and he’s surprisingly okay with the realisation. At least a crush is something else for him to think about in this current limbo.

“Fell, you’re grinning like a Cheshire cat,” Gabriel says, mangling ‘Cheshire’ into three syllables, “I assume you have something to say about this?”

To Crowley, Gabriel’s intention is clear. He thinks that Aziraphale has some obvious objection to Crowley’s proposal and is about to tear chunks out of him for it. He can’t be sure, but Crowley thinks that Aziraphale understands this as well.

“Where to start?” Aziraphale says, gesturing broadly with his pretty hands. “I think it’s the most elegant solution possible. I’m thoroughly impressed by it, truly.”

“Thank you, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, inclining his head in a gesture of gratitude that also hides his delighted smile.

With the wind knocked out of Gabriel’s sails, the rest of the meeting is brief. Crowley is given a terse instruction to develop his proposal further and have some solid numbers by their Thursday meeting. It feels almost too good to have something to run with now, something that isn’t just playing catch up and trying to find his feet.

Almost as soon as Gabriel closes the meeting, a video call invitation from Aziraphale appears on Crowley’s screen. He accepts immediately, forgetting everything he ever knew about being cool and attractive.

“That went very well!” Aziraphale says, his delight as evident as ever. Crowley basks like a lizard on a rock. “Did you see Gabriel’s face when I supported your idea? Priceless, truly. This arrangement has already borne fruit, it seems!”

Crowley grins back because he’s helpless to do anything else. He knows that he should be shocked or, at the very least, cautious about how quickly his opinion has flipped, but Aziraphale is a breath of fresh air. Especially now that he’s moved beyond being a crotchety grump.

“I saw, he practically deflated in front of us,” Crowley says, “I should thank you for the help earlier.” Aziraphale waves him off but Crowley feels that he owes more than Aziraphale is allowing. “No, really, Gabriel was ready to have my head for smiling and you didn’t need to take the blame for me. It- uh, it means a lot, thanks.”

Despite the disconnect caused by screens and cameras, Crowley feels as though Aziraphale is staring right into him. He feels seen in a manner that is both uncomfortable and wholly familiar. It’s unsettling, but it lasts only a moment.

“Dear boy, it was the least I could do considering that you had just saved me from another endless bickering match with him.” Aziraphale is earnest and solemn and Crowley doesn’t know how to respond.

He swallows thickly and is saved by the sudden, near miraculous appearance of Roomba who leaps onto his lap and immediately begins headbutting him in the chin.

“Hello, sweetheart,” says Crowley in a soft undertone.

“Oh, was someone being neglected?” Aziraphale laughs, dissolving the strange tension that had threatened. “Poor little princess.”

Back in safer territory, Crowley encourages Roomba to pose for the camera, letting Aziraphale coo over her until he realises that he’s just using his cat to get the approval and praise that he’s craving himself. Making an excuse about getting on with his work, Crowley brings the call to an end and manages not to scream once it’s over. He’s enough of a disaster on a normal day, this new crush needs to pass quickly.

  
  


Crowley makes good progress on his project over the next few days. Bee checks in and is pleased with his innovation, even assigning him a couple of days to use Eric, just to help get things moving. It helps a lot, having his immediate boss on side, and Crowley has a moment of realising how much that validation warms him. He’s doing all right, people are pleased with him. He’s a competent professional with skills and ideas and people like him. It’s almost a mantra, or it would be if Crowley had a tiny bit less dignity.

It’s fairly late on Wednesday when Aziraphale sends a message. Crowley had been considering calling it a day but now he’s engaged again.

_ A Fell  
_ _ Are you free to proof read something for me? _

_ A Crowley  
_ _ Of course, send it over _

A soft ping announces the arrival of a new email and Crowley opens the relevant tab. He skims through the text that Aziraphale has sent, laughing and cringing by turns. There’s no way that he can reasonably edit this mess without some input from Aziraphale, so he starts a video call and tries to put on his most disapproving expression before Aziraphale joins.

“Problem?” Aziraphale asks, all innocence and softness.

Crowley can see the cracks immediately: the twitch of Aziraphale’s mouth, the crease of his eyes, the too-adorable wrinkle of his nose. It’s just a matter of time before one of them cracks and Crowley desperately wants it to be Aziraphale.

“I’m not sure that email is the best medium for the message you’re trying to send,” Crowley says, fighting his own smile. “Have you considered biblical plagues? Or perhaps a Blitz-style bombing of their house?”

“Well yes, naturally,” Aziraphale says with a nod that turns regretful, “it’s just the cost, you see.”

That’s what breaks Crowley. He snorts with all the decorum of a country fair pig, and not a prize-winning one either.  _ That _ seems to be what breaks Aziraphale and the pair of them are utterly useless for several minutes, laughing themselves stupid over one snotty email.

Finally, Crowley recovers himself enough to find the words he wants to ask.

“Please tell me that you haven’t been sending emails like this before now?” he says with a shake of his head, “You can’t have been.”

“I may have been a little more free with my language in this example,” Aziraphale admits, clearly fighting a smile. “I usually find it cathartic to write exactly what I want to say before editing it down to something more palatable.”

Crowley nods, he’s done similar things himself when he needs to vent out an unprofessional reaction. It’s reassuring to know that Aziraphale has similar feelings, that he’s got these imperfections. It makes Crowley feel less defective.

“So, assuming that your aim  _ isn’t _ to get yourself fired, shall we try and tidy this up?” Crowley says, wondering if he’s actually needed for this or if Aziraphale is just joking around.

For his part, Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief.

“Would you mind, awfully? Even when I edit these things until  _ I _ think they’re polite enough, I still get these pointed memos about being respectful.” Aziraphale looks wearied by this admission and Crowley wonders at how difficult it’s been for him, trying to force himself into a corporate shell that doesn’t entirely make sense to his nature.

“It’s no problem, what I’m here for, after all,” Crowley says with a smile that’s meant to be reassuring but might just be cheesy. “I think we should start with that opening line. Referring to your colleagues as ‘the semi-sentient algae from the Black Lagoon’ might not make them receptive to the rest of your message.”

Aziraphale is tapping his chin with one finger and looking thoughtful.

“Fascinating,” he says, “do go on.”

  
  


Some time later, they are still talking. The email has been set to rights and sent off over an hour ago, full of the sort of buzz words and double speak that they both despise. They have managed to keep Aziraphale’s original ire at its core and simply draped it with a thick blanket of deniability and empty pleasantries. Crowley has become addicted to making Aziraphale laugh and those brief moments where his eyes sparkle with pure mischief. He’s had less promising dates, there’s an undeniable chemistry between them, and he thinks that Aziraphale is feeling it too.

The official work day ended almost two hours ago and Crowley could swear that it’s only been a fraction of that time. It feels so natural to laugh and talk with Aziraphale. He’s listening intently to Aziraphale’s recounting of some disastrous team building exercise they’d all been dragged to last year when Crowley’s mobile starts buzzing on his desk.

He glances down enough to see Tracy’s name on the screen and then returns his attention to Aziraphale with an apologetic smile for his troubles.

“Do you need to get that?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley shakes his head and the buzzing stops.

“Nah, it’s nothing important.” Tracy can wait, she’ll understand even if she teases Crowley for it.

“I really have kept you quite a while,” Aziraphale says a bit more firmly, looking as though he’s just realised the time, “I should let you get on with your evening.”

It’s enough like a dismissal that Crowley has to pull himself up short. His phone buzzes again, just once. A message from Tracy.

“I don’t mind,” he says softly, “I like this.”

Aziraphale’s face turns sharp for just a flash. Crowley can’t make out what he’s just seen, what it means, and it’s gone before he can even register the emotion.

“Do you, now?” Aziraphale’s face and tone is neutral but Crowley swears there’s an undercurrent here, a riptide that he needs to be wary of.

“Yes,” Crowley says, meaning it. And he knows that this is a bad idea. He’s nudging and tempting Aziraphale in the hope that this attraction is reciprocated, but they are four weeks into an unprecedented lockdown without end. Not to mention the fact that they are coworkers.

Crowley’s phone buzzes again. It’s a call from Deirdre. That’s a bit more unusual and he frowns in his confusion.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says firmly, making Crowley look back up at the screen. “You seem to be in demand. You are going to go deal with that and carry on with the rest of your evening. We will speak tomorrow and you will tell me all about what you get up to.”

“Yes,” Crowley says automatically, wondering what just happened and why he’s suddenly starting to feel aroused.

Aziraphale says goodbye and ends the call with a secretive smile that does absolutely nothing to answer Crowley’s unspoken questions. His phone buzzes again and he snatches it up, frustrated for reasons he can’t grasp.

“What?” he snaps.

“What’s got your knickers in a twist?” Tracy asks, clearly put out.

Crowley sighs and slumps, just now recognising how tense his posture has become.

“Just work stuff, Trace, sorry about that. What’s up?”

“It’s movie night, you doughnut,” Tracy says, sounding happy with his explanation, “we’re all waiting for you.”

Crowley had forgotten. He curses under his breath and jumps out of his chair, pinning his phone to his ear with his shoulder as he locks his computer and makes for the kitchen.

“I was just finishing up, I’ll be there in a few minutes. Wouldn’t miss Moana with you lot for anything,” he lies.

He would have. He was trying to. He’s still not sure if he has been rejected.

  
  


The Thursday afternoon meeting goes well. Crowley’s got all his facts and figures in place, all his ducks in a row, and it seems as though Gabriel has made some enquiries of his own because Crowley has an email from one of the execs praising his “innovative spirit”. The best part about that is that it’s evidence of Gabriel actually giving him his due credit. Crowley half expected Gabriel to try and claim the idea as his own.

Aziraphale is largely quiet during the meeting, answering only when he’s called upon, and looking thoughtful. Crowley uses the safety of the group call to get his fill of ogling.

Almost everyone else is wearing t-shirts or worse by now. Hastur seems to have been bonded to his grimy robe, Dagon looks like she went for a swim in the sea and let her hair dry in the wind, and even Device is wearing a loose hoodie instead of her usual severe style of dress. Aziraphale is still in his bowtie and waistcoat, looking as neat and soft as he ever has. His jacket is visible on the back of his chair, apparently his one concession to comfort today. Crowley thinks longingly of the cardigan he wore last week.

Somehow, Aziraphale is even making Gabriel look dressed down in his open-collared shirt and slightly mussed hair. The image of Gabriel in something like a tracksuit springs, unbidden, into Crowley’s head and he has to shove it away before he can react. It doesn’t bear thinking of. Crowley’s just grateful that he’s not let his own standards slip yet. He wants Aziraphale to think well of him, even if it doesn’t matter to anyone else. Although, maybe Aziraphale isn’t even paying attention to him.

“Might as well call it a day there, team,” Gabriel says, looking pointedly at his watch. It’s a couple of minutes before 5 and Gabriel refuses to let his meetings run over. “I’ll check in with each of you tomorrow once I’ve got our budget info from upstairs.”

Crowley waves a half-hearted goodbye to the camera and leaves the meeting. It’s the end of the day and Aziraphale hasn’t even messaged him a simple hello. Of course, Crowley hasn’t sent anything either, but he feels very strongly as though the ball is in Aziraphale’s court. He ended their call the evening before, he set the expectation for today, he’s the one who should make the first move. Besides, Crowley knows that he’s overthinking the whole thing and he doesn’t want to risk looking too keen or scaring Aziraphale off with his neediness.

A good run will sort him out, get his head on straight again. Well, straight-ish. Nothing about him is going to be truly straight, after all. He’s laughing to himself about the dumb joke and picturing Tracy’s reaction if she’d been around to hear it, reaching to turn off his monitor for the night, when the incoming video call icon pops up. Aziraphale’s little corporate portrait pulses in the centre, waiting for Crowley to accept.

He drops back into his chair and runs a hand through his hair before answering. It seems that he hasn’t been forgotten. Aziraphale’s smiling face fills his screen a moment later and in the 30 seconds since Crowley last saw him, Aziraphale has removed his bowtie and loosened his shirt collar. It’s practically indecent.

“Oh, jolly good!” Aziraphale says with a little clap, “I was worried I might have missed you.”

“It was a close thing,” Crowley admits, trying not to sound as relieved as he feels and, God, he’s pathetic. Aziraphale could have him eating out of his palm with one kind word, if he wanted. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.”

“Impossible, dear boy, I doubt that there are many who could forget about you.”

It’s flattery and not even subtle flattery, but still Crowley preens like a peacock.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that,” Crowley says, allowing himself a flirty wink. And that’s a mistake because Aziraphale giggles and blushes as prettily as any coquettish maiden.

“Enough of that, you tease,” Aziraphale says, although his tone suggests the very opposite. He composes himself more formally and gives a good approximation of eye contact before speaking again. “Now, I believe you were to tell me about what you got up to last night?”

Oddly, Crowley feels himself compelled to oblige him. He can’t imagine why Aziraphale would care, but that seems unimportant. Aziraphale wants something and Crowley can deliver it, so he shall.

“I watched a Disney movie with my friends, remotely of course, had a bit of a late dinner, went to bed with the cat,” says Crowley, rattling the points off like a list.

Aziraphale sits back and folds his hands across his stomach. He looks solid and just a little soft, comfortable but built to last. Crowley can’t help but watch his hands like some sort of deprived puppy in desperate need of a pat on the head.

“Let’s try that again, but slower and with more detail, shall we?” The schoolmaster voice really shouldn’t work for Crowley, it shouldn’t. He has a bad track record with authority figures and being told what to do but this, oh,  _ this _ feels very different.

Briefly, he wonders if Aziraphale has any idea of the effect he has on Crowley before giving in completely and starting to describe his evening in, hopefully, the right amount of detail. Aziraphale nods and smiles, making noises at the right intervals to be encouraging, but otherwise letting Crowley speak.

“That, I think,” Aziraphale says eventually, “sounds a lot more interesting than an evening talking to some stuffy, bad-tempered colleague from legal.” His eyes actually twinkle as he says this. Crowley thinks it should probably be illegal to be this adorable.

“I don’t think of you like that,” he says quietly, as afraid of being heard as he is of not saying it.

Raising one eyebrow, Aziraphale seems to look at him more intently than should be possible.

“Is that so?” Aziraphale says in a measured tone, “How quickly the tide changes for you. You hated me only a week ago.”

“Didn’t.” Crowley sounds like a toddler but any other reaction risks something too like emotional honesty and he’s definitely not there yet.

Aziraphale hums, apparently accepting Crowley’s retort, before pressing one finger to his lips in a gesture of thought.

“What might I be keeping you from tonight?” he asks after a moment.

“Nothing,” Crowley says far too quickly. “I might have gone for a run, or done some yoga, but I hadn’t decided yet and I’ve got no plans.”

He sees Aziraphale’s interest flash at the mention of yoga and, well, isn’t that intriguing? Does Aziraphale like the idea of Crowley being flexible and fit? They are undeniably flirting by this point but Crowley is struggling to work out if it means anything. He flirts with everyone to some extent, maybe Aziraphale is the same way. But maybe he isn’t.

Somehow, they end up talking into the evening. Crowley gives Aziraphale his personal number for a reason that definitely makes sense at the time, and they move the call from their work computers to private devices. This results in Crowley drinking a glass of wine and cooking a simple stir fry whilst talking to Aziraphale about their particular rankings of classical composers. Crowley spends far too long explaining why Liszt belongs  _ exactly _ in the hell where he most definitely resides, and finds himself equally caught up in Aziraphale’s oral dissertation expounding on the evils of jukebox musicals.

None of it makes any sense, all of it is more ridiculous than funny, and Crowley laughs without artifice. Aziraphale charms him with his fussy little opinions and sweeping, inaccurate generalisations. He’s a delight and Crowley is well and truly fucked.

Later on the sofa, with another glass from the same bottle, Roomba decides that she needs a cuddle and climbs onto Crowley’s chest. She curls into a tight ball of blackness against Crowley’s deep red shirt and Aziraphale, deep in his third glass of wine, melts into nonsensical baby talk.

Watching Aziraphale try to make friends with Roomba through a screen that she refuses to pay attention to is really just the final nail in the coffin of Crowley’s self control. The crush has sunk its roots into him and wrapped between his ribs.

It’s late when they finally say goodnight. Chaucer has appeared and played the part of Starving Orphan #1 as though there was an Oscar nomination on the line. She deserves the nod, if not the award itself, Crowley thinks as he feeds Starving Orphan #2. Whatever he had expected from a call with Aziraphale today, the reality has utterly blown it out of the water. He’s definitely thinking in too many metaphors and idioms, but that’s what always happens when his heart is allowed too much freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're all utter sweethearts. Thank you for the support.


End file.
